-----
The memory slammed into him fast—
came back like it was yesterday.
The room around him blurred out.
Years ago, Richard had handed him a sealed packet. No greeting. No emotion. Just a heavy envelope shoved across the desk.
"Need-to-know," Richard said. His tone flat. "You're Rank 1. So now we own you. If you do anything dumb, our deal is over."
A small smirk.
"We should share some of the truth with you. So don't fuck things up, Mentis."
Inside were surveillance reports, lab results, internal directives. Real ones. The kind that made his jaw clench the same way it did now.
HeroCorp didn't manage heroes. They owned them.
After leaving the restricted briefing area, he went deeper—lower levels.
Restricted access.
Mentis had authorization. Rank 1 meant access to anywhere, even if they pretended otherwise. He remembered the weight of the badge in his palm. The scanner hesitated before unlocking, as if the door itself second-guessed letting him in.
Inside:
A private medical chamber. Too white. Too quiet.
A technician adjusted a harness around a young hero-in-training, the kid's face pale and stiff.
"Relax. It's just a reflex test," the tech lied with a fake smile.
Another tech hunched over a monitor, whispering:
"If this compound hits right, we can bump their response time. Makes the next fight look cleaner on camera."
On a side table—papers.
Stacks.
A thick black folder clamped shut with metal teeth.
The kind of file someone shouldn't leave lying around.
Mentis never forgot the title stamped across the top:
PERFORMANCE AUGMENTATION — INTERNAL USE ONLY.
Inside: Charts. Dosage notes. Side effects scribbled out or drowned in white-out.
Hero names replaced with codes. One page stained with a dried streak of blood across the corner.
He didn't take it. He wasn't supposed to. But he read enough.
They weren't trying to "improve" heroes.
They were manufacturing them.
He remembered closing the folder slowly, fingers cold.
After leaving the lab, he walked down another corridor—sterile walls, bright white lights humming overhead. Holding the files Richard gave him tucked under one arm, he moved alone.
Then he heard voices before the executives turned the corner.
Two suits—polished shoes, too confident—whispering fast.
He stepped into a shadowed alcove, silent.
"We need the media to push this next one hard," one muttered, tapping a tablet showing a staged fight. A B-rank swinging slow, sloppy punches at a "villain" who clearly didn't want to be there.
"The public eats that shit up. Danger sells."
The second man snorted. "Everything sells. Networks, ads, merch—preorders are insane. We could drop a hero plushie farting lasers and it'd chart."
Mentis' grip tightened around the files.
Everything is a fucking lie… This world is beyond fixing.
"Scripts done?"
"Yeah. Writers finished last night. Things are too calm. Need tension. A scare. Keep the audience hungry."
Their laughter echoed as they stepped into the elevator.
Only when the doors slid shut did Mentis step out of the shadows.
-----
BACK TO PRESENT
Black Mentis blinked once—sharp, controlled—as the memory snapped out.
His reflection stared back at him from the elevator doors: blank mask, cold glow, no hint of the storm boiling under the armor.
His fingers flexed once.
A low growl vibrated under his breath.
"…I'll make you all pay for this."
Too quiet for the cameras. Too deadly to be misunderstood.
The elevator chimed.
DING.
He stepped inside.
The doors slid shut, slicing his reflection in half
But behind it, his eyes burned.
He didn't know how long he'd have to keep playing this game.
But one day soon, he would stop pretending.
And when that day comes… there'd be no script.
Only reckoning.
Black Mentis walked through the hallway, his expression unreadable, barely acknowledging the cluster of new heroes gathered near the reception area.
Behind him, the receptionist stood straight behind her desk, hands resting flat on the surface. Her tone was calm, practiced—but firm enough to cut through the nervous chatter.
"Alright. Listen up."
The recruits shifted. A few straightened their posture. Someone stopped whispering.
"HeroCorp's ranking system is split into tiers," she continued. "Each tier reflects combat ability, consistency, and confirmed field results. This isn't about popularity. It's about what you can do when things go bad."
A young man with spiky hair raised his hand, elbow jerking up too fast. "What's the highest rank?"
The receptionist didn't hesitate.
:"That would be SSS."
A murmur rippled through the group.
"That rank is exclusive," she said. "One position only. Reserved for the single strongest hero under HeroCorp. Someone who's proven—over and over—that they operate on a level no one else can match."
She turned her head slightly, eyes flicking down the hallway.
"That position is currently held by Black Mentis."
Several recruits turned instinctively, craning their necks. Some whispered. Some froze.
Black Mentis didn't react. He was already halfway down the corridor, shoulders squared, pace steady. The attention slid off him like rain.
"Below SSS," the receptionist went on, "is Rank SS."
She lifted two fingers.
"Second place overall. Only one hero holds it at a time. Exceptional ability. Exceptional results. If SSS is untouchable, SS is the closest anyone gets."
A woman with bright blue hair nodded slowly. "And after that?"
"Rank S," the receptionist replied. "Positions three through ten. This is still elite territory."
She glanced across the group, making sure they were following.
"Rank S includes eight heroes total. From S-3 to S-10. Every one of them is dangerous. Every one of them has a reputation. These are the names civilians recognize."
A muscular man leaned forward, arms crossed tight. "What about everyone else?"
"Rank A," she said. "Heroes ranked eleven through thirty."
She tapped the desk once. Tap.
"Once you drop below S-10, your number resets within the rank. Rank eleven is A-1. Rank twelve is A-2. All the way up to A-30."
A few recruits nodded. One scribbled notes furiously.
"Rank A heroes are powerful," she added. "They handle major threats. City-level incidents. High-risk missions. They just haven't broken into the top ten."
"And then?" a petite woman with glasses asked, pen hovering.
"Rank B," the receptionist answered. "Heroes ranked thirty-one to fifty."
She didn't slow down.
"Thirty-one becomes B-1. Fifty is B-50. Solid combatants. Reliable. A handful of you will start here—if you're lucky enough."
The spiky-haired recruit swallowed. "And after that…?"
"It will be rank C," she said. "So heroes ranked fifty-one to one hundred, below Rank B, are classified as C-1 through C-100."
She glanced around the room.
"These heroes keep things running. Patrols. Support. Crowd control. You won't see them on posters, but without them, the system collapses."
A beat.
"And finally—Rank D."
The room quieted.
"Heroes ranked one hundred one through two hundred. Fresh meat—like most of you. Either newly recruited or just discovering their powers. Designated D-1 through D-200. Little to no combat skill basically Inexperienced. Still proving they belong here."
She folded her hands together.
"You either move up by results. You move down by failure. There're no shortcuts."
The recruits stood in silence, the weight of it settling in.
Down the hall, Black Mentis reached a heavy office door.
He stopped.
Just for a second.
His jaw tightened behind the mask. A slow breath left his chest.
Then his hand closed around the handle.
The door opened.
-----